


Days of Future Past

by ArwenLalaith



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, References to Abuse, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLalaith/pseuds/ArwenLalaith
Summary: It's the first time he's seen Emily Prentiss in over fifteen years.And she's sitting in an interrogation room on the other side of the two-way mirror. To say that this is a far cry from the way he imagined their lives would end up is an understatement.





	1. Chapter 1

It's the first time I've seen Emily Prentiss in over fifteen years.

And she's sitting in an interrogation room on the other side of the two-way mirror. To say that this is a far cry from the way I imagined our lives would end up is an understatement.

She doesn't appear overly anxious or frightened, almost as if she'd been expecting this situation to arise and I can't help but think back to the damaged fifteen year old she was when we met and wonder how the hell she wound up here.

I enter the interrogation room and sit down across from her without saying a word.

It's hard to tell who's more surprised to see the other. I think I win, though, because I had thought she was dead. Every choice I've made in my life has been because of her, because of her death. She's half the reason I joined the FBI – the case of the remains I'd always suspected were hers sits hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk and every so often, I call up the lead detective and remind them of its importance, press them to solve it.

I stare at her for what feels like a long time and think about the past. She hasn't changed very much; her features a little sharper, her hair cut shorter and a shade lighter, her eyes darker and more haunted...but I can still see the girl I used to know inside her.

I'm surprised when she's the first person to speak. "Please don't do this..." she whispers.

"Em..." I start to say, but she cuts me off with an icy glare. That's when I remember she no longer goes by Emily. "Lauren..."

"Don't do this," she says again. She's not pleading, not demanding, but there's a hint of desperation behind it nonetheless.

"Do you know why you're here, Ms. Reynolds?" I ask, because I have to.

She raises one brow, unimpressed, refusing to participate.

"You're here because of your husband," I continue on without an answer because I know I'm not getting one. It was mostly rhetorical anyway.

"My husband is a good man," she says immediately, not waiting for me to continue.

"Good men can do bad things..."

"And bad men can do good things, but that doesn't change what they are at heart," Emily counters. "I'm not telling you anything. Ian is not a bad man, he protected me when no one else would. He would never hurt anyone," she growls.

"He's an arms dealer, Lauren, he sold guns to criminals, terrorists..."

"He never hurt anyone and if you had any proof of any of this, you wouldn't be here talking to me," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

I decide to change tactics. "You've got a beautiful family, Ms. Reynolds," I say conversationally as if we aren't sitting on opposing sides of an interrogation. "How old are your children now?" I know this, of course, because of the information Garcia has dug up for us, but I ask anyway, hoping to get her to open up.

Her eyes are suspicious, but she answers anyway, "Declan's fifteen now, Aisling is eight, and Morgana just turned three."

A breath sticks in my chest. Garcia hadn't told me their names and I'm left feeling thrown off balance. "M-Morgana?" I stammer, "That's an unusual name..."

"From Arthurian Legend," she replies, but she catches and holds my gaze with burning intensity and deep down, I know – I know that she named her daughter after me...


	2. Chapter 2

_Fifteen Years Earlier_

I see the new girl eating alone at lunch and sit down next to her, trying to remember her name. I settle into the seat and she gives me a half smile. I can't help but think she's beautiful, with her Snow White looks and endearingly awkward ways. She's way out of my league, though, that much I'm sure of. "Hey, Princess," I greet her when she continues looking at me expectantly and I can't think of her name.

"Princess?" she asks, quirking a brow, not unamused. She doesn't seem offended, thankfully, because she looks like she packs a mean right hook if she'd wanted to use it.

I shrug, but say nothing. "I'm Derek Morgan," I supply when she continues looking quizzically at me. I wink flirtatiously and flash the grin Mama calls a 'winning smile'. Mama always says I could sell a cage to a lion when I'm in the mood to be charming.

She smiles, more genuinely this time. "Hello, Derek Morgan," she replies. "It's Emily, by the way, not Princess."

"I like Princess better," I say, smirking. "It fits."

She just rolls her eyes. She hasn't stood up and left yet, though, so I take that as a good sign.

"So, Italy?" I ask. It's not really a question, but it's the only thing I remember from when the principal introduced her during history class. She'd seemed almost shy then, like she wanted to be anywhere else but at the centre of attention. I know the feeling.

She seems to understand the non-question I sort of asked. "My mother was posted in Rome. She's a foreign ambassador. This is the first time I've been State-side in years."

"Oh..." I say, pouting a little dramatically.

"You sound disappointed," she says with a little laugh.

"It's not a very good story," I admit with a shrug. "I was hoping maybe you were a spy."

That gets a genuine smile out of her and it's almost blinding. "If I were a spy I couldn't tell  _you_ ," she points out.

"Touche." She's quick with the witty repartee. I like that.

She stands up, abandoning her half-eaten lunch. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" I ask, around a mouthful of fries stolen off her tray. Mama can't always afford to send much in the way of lunches and if she's not going to eat them, they might as well not go to waste.

"I need a smoke," she says. Somehow, I hadn't expected this proper designer-dressed socialite to be a smoker, not if her mother's an ambassador. I would soon learn she's anything but what she seems. "Are you coming or what?" she says, turning around, tossing her hands in the air, but she's smiling.

* * *

Emily says nothing as we slide onto the hood of the car; it's a nice car – too nice for a high school parking lot – and I'm not entirely sure whose it is, but she doesn't seem to care either way. She must see my concern on my face because she elbows me. "Relax, it's mine."

She reaches a hand into the fake leather purse slung across her body, sitting against her hip, and pulls out a pack of pastel coloured cigarettes. She slips one out and puts it to her red glossy lips, lighting it with a dented Zippo that looks older than the two of us combined.

She takes a long slow drag and shuts her eyes, tipping her head back as she exhales with relish before offering it to me. I shake my head – my whole future depends on my body being in top physical condition, including my lungs.

She shrugs as if it's my loss. "So..." She flicks ash nonchalantly onto the asphalt below us. I watch a small sliver of pink tongue flick out to lick her top lip. "Who's the sick bastard in your life?" She says it like she's asking about the weather.

I set down my coffee too suddenly and look at her, but she's not looking at me, gaze distant and unfocused. "I don't know what you mean." I know  _exactly_ what she means, I just don't know how she knows...

She looks at me then, unimpressed. Her eyes are dark enough to get lost in and I can't look away no matter how much I want to. "Mine's the head of my mother's security. She hired him to come to Russia on her new posting with us after my father left. Apparently the guy in charge of doing the security checks could've used a better one himself." Her tone suggests the irony isn't lost on her. "I was six. Asshole still lives with us."

Neither her tone nor her demeanour change even the slightest bit while talking about him. I get the feeling she's compartmentalized it all to the point where it seems more like something she read in a book than something that actually happened to her personally. I wish I had that skill, wonder how she does it.

I don't particularly want to talk about this – not to her, not to anyone – but after she's divulged her deepest darkest secret to me, I feel obligated. "Football coach. Started after my dad died, when I was ten."

Her slow nods are indecipherable and I can't help but wonder if she's judging me because she's been suffering so much longer than I have.

She reaches out and gives my hand a small squeeze, but the contact is brief. She doesn't offer condolences or platitudes and I appreciate that. We just sit in silence, each contemplating our own suffering. It's almost nice knowing someone understands exactly. Almost.

Eventually, she breaks the silence with a little unladylike snort. "Well, this has been fun." She drops her cigarette butt to the ground and watches the trail of smoke dissipate into the air as the wind blows it across the parking lot.

I don't have to tell her not to tell anyone. I already know that she won't.

"Catch you later, Derek Morgan," she says as she slides off the hood of the car.

"Catch you later, Princess," I agree. She tosses a wave over her shoulder as she marches off.

I stay sitting there, thinking about what she said, for so long I'm late to my next class.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks into Emily's stay at our high school, she met Ian Doyle.

Ian Doyle – our school's infamous bad boy. He was at least twenty, but still in twelfth grade. Rumour had it that it was because he'd just gotten out of jail – no one was sure for what, as the rumours ranged from breaking and entering to killing a man with his bare hands. Everyone was too afraid of him to find out for sure.

"Ian Doyle..." she said vaguely as she slid into the seat next to me at lunch.

I pretended not to know what she was getting at. "No, I'm Derek Morgan..." I say slowly, as if she's a little dumb.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, fully aware I'm playing stupid. It's my favourite way to bug her. "Not you," she says, punching me in the shoulder, almost making me spill my drink. "Doyle. The cute older Irish guy in senior year..." she explained unnecessarily.

I stopped listening after the word 'cute'.

In those two weeks, much to my chagrin, I found I had developed quite a troublesome crush on Emily. This was a first for me – I knew I liked girls, found them attractive, but I had never had feelings this strong about anyone before. I wasn't sure I liked it.

I wasn't sure that she liked me that way and I was okay with that. We were from two different worlds – her the well-travelled rich girl who spoke five languages and had had plenty of boyfriends, me the public school street rat who'd never even kissed a girl...we would never work, I'd accepted that. The idea that she might actually have a crush on  _him_ , though, I found almost unbearable.

I realize she must have asked me a question because she's staring at me curiously, one perfectly manicured brow high on her forehead.

"Oh, um," I stammer, "What did you say?"

She looks like she's not sure whether to be amused or annoyed by the fact that I haven't been listening. "Do you know him?" she repeats.

I didn't really. I'd heard  _of_ him – everyone had. He had kind of a reputation around school as being kind of an amoral middle man, if you wanted something illegal, he knew someone who could get it for you. Mostly, in the case of students at our school, that was drugs. But I wouldn't be surprised if his reaches extended into other things.

"Kinda. Why?" I replied with a pronounced frown.

She shrugged. "I met him the other day," she says with a smile I would qualify as dreamy. I don't like it.

"And?" I press. Not because I want to know, but because I need to. I need to know what exactly might be going on between the two of them.

"And he's cool. I like him," she says, waving away my concern. Her expression is less dreamy and more irritated now.

" _Like_ him?" I repeat incredulously. I realize my voice has gotten loud and screechy and people around us are staring at me. I shrink down on myself and avoid their curious stares and whispers.

She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Something wrong with that?" I don't like the way her brow raises in challenge.

"Ian Doyle...well, he's not really a nice guy," I say slowly. I don't have any actual proof of this, only rumours, but I firmly believe that anyone with that much of a bad reputation has earned it somehow. "He's someone you don't want to mess with."

"No one is 'messing' with him," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I just want to hang out with him."

I realize there's nothing I can say that won't sound petty or jealous and I'm honestly not sure why I'm feeling this way when there's no real reason for it... So, I say nothing, even though I want nothing more than to stop her.

* * *

She doesn't bring up the subject again and we both go about our lives as if the conversation had never happened.

But three days later, I'm on my way to football practice after school when I spot them. He has her pressed up against a chain link fence and he's got his tongue down her throat. My first instinct is to pull him off of her and kick his ass...but, if Emily had wanted him away from her, I know she could kick his ass without any help from me.

She doesn't appear to be about to do that, unfortunately. If anything, she seems more into the kiss than he does. She's got one hand tangled in his hair, the other travelling down his lower back towards his ass. I kind of want to be sick.

I tell myself I'm not jealous, I'm just worried about her. I don't want her to rush into anything and get herself hurt. Ian's definitely the type to do that to her.

I don't know how, in three days' time, she's gone from not knowing him to making out with him. She said she'd had a lot of boyfriends in the past, but I chose to interpret that as her falling in love easily...not that she  _was_ easy. I hate myself a little as soon as I have that thought.

I want to look away, to run away, but I'm rooted to the spot, just watching while my stomach turns.

They kiss awhile longer, then he takes her hand and leads her over to his motorcycle, handing her a helmet. She laughs as she climbs on the bike behind him, arms locked tight around his waist, body pressed tightly against his back, and they speed away.

I stand there awhile longer, dazed and confused, before I remember myself and continue my slow reluctant trudge towards the youth centre.

When I see Emily the next day at school, she doesn't mention Ian Doyle and neither do I. But she's got this secretive little smile on her face that lights up her eyes in a way I've never seen.


	4. Chapter 4

A week after I first catch them making out, Emily tells me she's dating Ian. I'm admittedly surprised because I've never heard of Ian  _dating_ anyone – he's had plenty of  _girlfriends_ , but never for long.

I don't say what I want to say, which is: what the hell are you thinking!?. I have no idea what she sees in him, what they could possibly have in common, but it's not for me to say.

She seems happy...and it kills me a little, though I'll never admit it. She smiles when she talks about him, with that light in her eyes. She laughs more. She stops dressing all in black. She's like a whole different person.

* * *

Emily and I don't talk about our little secret, the one we discussed that first day.

We each have our own way of dealing with it, with the trauma.

For me, it's channelling all my anger, all my pain into football, into improving my game. I know it's my only way out, my only way to get away from him.

For Emily, it's part compartmentalization, part self-medication. She comes to school with alcohol on her breath sometimes and I know those days are the bad ones, the one's she's trying to forget, but can't push into a tight enough box, a dark enough corner.

I don't particularly like the fact that she drinks herself into oblivion, but we both do what we have to do to forget.

Sometimes, I think she might be passively trying to get herself killed. She's just rough enough around the edges that it seems a very real possibility. I don't think she'd actually hurt herself – I can see it in her eyes, that she's afraid of dying, even while she craves its release. I understand it all too well...

There have been days were I've come home in pain and hating myself for letting it happen just enough to seriously consider slitting my wrists. If it weren't for Mama and how much it would hurt her, I'm sure I would have. As it is, though, I'll never do that to her.

Emily, though, doesn't think she has anyone that cares enough. That makes her dangerous. And as much as I try to show her otherwise, as much as I try to tell her, she'll never believe me. And it terrifies me.

She knocks on my door late one night.

Mama is working the night shift, but the frenzied knocking wakes up Sarah and Desi and I know they'll tell her.

Emily nearly collapses into my arms like a ragdoll as soon as I open the door. "Oops!" she says, then giggles a little and I'm not sure I've ever heard her  _giggle_ before. I awkwardly manoeuvre her to the couch in the living room with her struggling against me the entire way.

Thinking she's just drunk off her ass, I make her a cup of coffee to sober her up, but when I crouch down in front of her and press the mug into her hands, I get a good look at her for the first time. Her pupils are blown and there's dried blood around her nose...my stomach sinks.

She's saying something to me, but I'm not listening and she's talking too fast for me to understand anyway.

"Emily," I say slowly, "What did you take?"

She either doesn't hear me or she doesn't understand and I realize I'm not going to get anything out of her while she's like this.

* * *

When Emily wakes up, I can tell that she's disoriented. Not surprising, considering she's in my bed, in a room she doesn't recognize, coming down from whatever she'd taken.

I can see the relief wash over her when she finally spots me, standing in the doorway with a tray of breakfast for her. I briefly wonder what she thought had happened while she was high, but it's not for me to ask.

"Good morning," I say, sure to convey just how displeased I am in her.

She definitely hears it because she shrinks in on herself and won't meet my eye. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

"I'm sorry," she croaks as I set the tray in her lap. "For...whatever I did last night." She takes the glass of water and drinks greedily.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch her for a moment. "What did you take?" I ask eventually.

She pretends she doesn't know what I mean, but I can tell from her face that she does.

"Don't bullshit me, Emily, I'm not stupid. You were high as a kite last night. What did you take?"

"Nothing," she says with a shrug. "Just something to take the edge off. It's fine. Ian only gave me a little, not enough to overdose or anything."

I bite down on my back teeth hard enough that I feel pain shooting down the muscles of my neck. Of course this had to do with him.

She must see the anger in my face because she immediately jumps to Ian's defense. "I asked him for it. I just needed to forget...surely you can understand that."

"No, Emily, I don't understand!" I snap. "I don't understand at all how you can be so stupid!"

I didn't mean that, but it's too late to take it back now. She looks at me, eyes wide in shock for a few moments, mouth gaping, unable to form a response.

I can't resist any longer. I try, really I do, but I can't help it. I've held my tongue for weeks, in spite of my better instincts, but now...I've let things go too far.

"What are you doing, Emily?" I ask, controlling my voice remarkably well.

The question throws her off balance. "Excuse me?"

"With him, with Doyle..."

She looks at me like she can't believe I'm saying these things, shaking her head slowly.

"I know how this is going to end for you...do you?"

"What... What are you talking about?" she stammers, wary.

"He  _uses_ women, Emily. Uses them and then throws them away like trash. I've seen it before." Well, I've heard the rumours, the story of Chloe Donaghy, never actually witnessed it myself.

"Stop it, Derek," she warns. She looks like she wants to cry, but she'll never ever let herself be that weak.

"And it's only a matter of time before he gets done with you too," I say. I'm pushing her – I can see it in her eyes – but I have to do this.

Her eyes narrow, but are deadly calm. "You're wrong." Her tone is getting dangerous and I'd be afraid if I weren't dead inside.

"Have you fucked him yet?" I ask brazenly. I'm just trying to get a rise out of her, to make her  _see_. "I mean, I've heard you're easy, but..."

She stands up suddenly, knocking over the tray in her lap, spilling juice and egg yolk all over my quilt, and slaps me across the face with a sharp resounding sting. My eyes water and I'm too stunned to react for a moment. I bring a hand up to my reddening cheek and rub it, trying not to let it show just how surprised I am that she'd actually hit me, even if I did deserve it.

"Fuck you, Derek," she whispers, slow and cold. "Don't  _ever_  speak to me again."


	5. Chapter 5

It doesn't take long before I regret my harsh words.

Partly because she's the only friend I have, the only person I can talk to. I need her in my life to stay sane, to stay grounded. She keeps me from doing something stupid... But also because I have a feeling I'm her only friend as well. She may have Ian, but I can't imagine she's trusted him with something so big as this, this most shameful of secrets.

I know I need to apologize if I have any hope of earning her trust again. I've learned that Emily Prentiss isn't someone who trusts easily. She gave me that gift very early on and I went and proved her right in that she should never trust anyone because she'll only ever get hurt. I don't want to be the person who causes her to never trust again, to lose her faith in humanity. There's good in people, I know, I've seen it, I've seen it in her, and I don't want her to lose sight of that.

Even if she never trusts me again, I hope I can at least help her to trust  _someone_  again.

I haven't exactly thought this through, I realize as I'm knocking on the front door to her palatial almost-mansion on the edge of town. I don't know what I'm going to say, going to do...Mama's right when she says I don't think sometimes. A man answers the door when I knock; something about him reminds me of Carl, though I couldn't have said exactly what. He unsettles me and I forget how to form words for a moment.

When I ask for Emily, he looks like he seriously considers slamming the door shut in my face, which I probably deserve. But he doesn't, even though he clearly wants to. He doesn't invite me inside while he goes to get her, tells me to wait on the porch, which I do, happy to stay as far away from him as possible.

When she finally does come to the door, she's still in her pyjamas and her eyes are red as if she's been crying. She doesn't look at all the put-together picture of perfection I've come to expect from Emily Prentiss. She has a confused – no,  _alarmed_  – look on her face when she sees me. She quickly leads me away from the front window, away from the prying eyes of the still watching man.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses when we're settled on the porch swing. She keeps her distance from me. She's not looking at me either, staring at her feet as she uses them to propel the wooden swing.

I'm taken aback by the reaction. "I'm here to apologize," I say slowly, confused by her behaviour, her sudden shyness.

"No, what are you doing  _here_?" she repeats, still not looking at me.

"I don't..." I stammer. "I'm not..."

"He's going to hurt me," she whispers. And I realize we're still being watched, through the window. "He doesn't like it when boys come over. He's very possessive..."

I could smack myself for my stupidity. I shouldn't have come here. She hasn't told me in so many words, but I know enough about the type to know that they don't like to share, that I'd be seen as a threat.

I get up to leave before I can do anymore damage, before I get her hurt, but she stops me with a hand on my wrist. "Stay," she says, voice barely there.

She doesn't have to ask me twice. "I thought you never wanted to speak to me again?" I ask, a little cheekily, but mostly desperate for forgiveness.

"I didn't, but..." she shrugged, doesn't seem to know what she feels. "I'm still very hurt by what you said – it was cruel and you said the things you know I hate about myself..." She gives me a pointed look and I look away, ashamed. "But I need a friend now more than ever," she continues and its as much forgiveness as I'm going to get.

I look at her –  _really_ look at her – for the first time. She looks exhausted, like she hasn't slept in days and...afraid? No, terrified.

"Em?" I whisper. I reach out a hand to tuck her messy slept-on hair behind her ear, then stop myself.

"I... I'm pregnant," she rasps. She's blinking too much and I know she's fighting tears. I'm not sure I've ever seen her cry before...not sure someone so powerful even  _could_ cry without the edges of the world fraying.

"Pregnant?" I repeat, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. My hand is still frozen halfway to her face. I try very hard to keep all judgement out of my voice. Her forgiveness is still tenuous and I don't want to send her over the edge, away from me. "Is...is it  _his_?" I ask, not sure which 'him' I'm referring to.

"It's Ian's," she confesses, tears spilling over.

I'd previously wondered if they'd had sex yet, but every time that thought entered my head, I felt sick. I guess I have my answer now, judging by the burning feeling in my gut. But I open my arms for her anyway and she falls into me, sobbing heavily into my chest.

I know I shouldn't, but a part of me feels betrayed. She owes me nothing – we're friends, nothing more, even after everything that's happened between us. But still...

"He'll kill me when he finds out," she says seriously when the sobbing subsides.

Now I'm not sure which 'him'  _she's_ referring to. But nonetheless, I promise, "I won't let that happen." A thought strikes me then. "Come live with me."

"What?" She's taken aback by the offer. She pulls back from my chest enough to look at me curiously, cautiously.

"Mama won't mind, if you chip in a little. I'd have to tell her why, but..." I'm thinking aloud, my words coming out quickly and cramped together.

"No!" she hisses before I can get any further. Her eyes are wide and frightening in their insistence. "You can never  _ever_  tell  _anyone_."

"But..." I start to argue. Silence is going to get her killed...

" _No one_. Promise me." Her tone is deadly calm and quiet.

"I promise," I vow, even though my gut begs otherwise.


	6. Chapter 6

When I see Emily the next day at school, she's wearing long sleeves and makeup that's clearly covering a black eye and my gut burns knowing I caused it, caused her this pain. I wonder how no one, not even her mother, can see it, can see that she needs help...she's not as good at hiding it as she'd like to believe.

We're cutting class, sitting on the hood of her car outside my house where no one is home to notice. I don't generally make a habit of skipping school, but she makes it so hard to deny her anything. She isn't looking at me, pulling apart her split ends so I can't see what's in her eyes – I think maybe she's crying. I watch her, even though she doesn't want me to see.

"I need your help," she says softly, voice thick with emotion she's trying to swallow. She turns to look at me, then, eyes wary, like she's afraid of what I might read in her face.

"Anything," I agree without even knowing the request. I reach out, in spite of myself, as if to touch her bruise where the make up has come off, and she flinches away from my touch. I still my hand before it can get to her.

"Go pack a bag, we're going on a little road trip," she commands with confidence she doesn't feel, hopping off the car to pop the trunk. I follow her and see she has a bag packed, know she's been planning this, but didn't know how to ask.

I obey wordlessly, only thinking to question it when we're on the road. "Where are we going?" I ask, attempting to sound nonchalant, merely curious and not skeptical.

"New York," she says, staring intently out the windshield, almost like she's afraid of my reaction. She looks beautiful with her loose hair blowing in the breeze from the open window. She always looks beautiful.

"New York?" I echo dumbly. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that.

"It's only four hours," she says with a shrug.

That was not my concern. "Why?" I try not to make it sound like I think she's crazy.

"I'm getting an abortion and I don't want anyone to trace it back to me." She says it strangely devoid of any emotion, like she's reading off a script. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, though, giving her anxiety away. I don't know whether it because of the procedure or my reaction.

" _What_?" I yelp before I can stop myself. I thought we were just goofing off, not _that_...never that.

"You know what my mother would do if she found out – and that's the preferable option..." She's getting defensive and I know I've hurt her with my incredulity.

That wasn't the part I was questioning, but I  _do_ know what's she's referring to. "Yes, but..." I don't have any right to question her, I'm not in her shoes, I never will be...but I have to know. "Are you sure? What about...other options?"

"I can't have a baby – not now. If  _he_ found out..." She shakes her head.

I don't know how to feel. The part of me that believed (believes?) in God has always been taught that it's wrong, that it's a  _life_. But I know she's right, she'd likely end up dead if anyone knew she was pregnant and I'd rather have her alive than a bunch of undifferentiated cells.

"What about Ian?" I ask, trying not to infuse my voice with too much venom, "Does he know?"

"I can't tell him," she says softly, sadly, "He wouldn't understand."

"He wouldn't want it?"

"I think he'd want it more than anything..."

I don't comment on the sadness in her voice, the longing that makes me ache (I try not to examine too closely why it makes my heart hurt...) "And why am I here?"

"I need someone to look after me while I sleep off the anesthetic. You're the only one I trust." Considering two weeks ago she hadn't wanted to speak to me, I'm touched.

I reach over to hold her hand and she smiles faintly. It makes my heart hurt a little more.

* * *

"I'm scared," she whispers. "Hold my hand?"

I reach out to grip her proffered hand – it's like ice. She squeezes my fingers tightly and I squeeze hers right back until she attempts a smile, a grimace, really, in thanks.

"Stay with me?" she asks, voice quavering. She looks so frightened, so small against the stark surgical white of the room, she looks like I could break her in half if I held her too tightly.

"Always," I promise. I've never meant anything more in my life.

Her eyes shine when she looks up at me – she looks like she wants to believe me, but can't. I know I'll spend the rest of my life proving that to her, if she lets me.

* * *

She's still half-dazed from the anesthetic when we get back to the hotel. I half-carry, half-drag her into the room and deposit her on the bed. She doesn't even move when I pull her shoes off. I don't imagine she's very comfortable in her clothes, but I'm not about to undress her.

She mumbles something incoherent and rolls over, splaying out across the one bed. Looks like I'll be sleeping on the floor tonight. Even if there had been room, sharing a bed would feel too much like I was taking advantage of her.

I'm busy making a nest of spare blankets on the floor when she says my name. At first I think she's talking in her sleep, until she says it again, more insistently this time. I crouch down at the side of the bed to meet her gaze, eyes glazed but searching out mine. For a moment, before her eyes focus in on me, she looks frightened, like she thought I'd abandoned her.

"What'd you say, princess?" I stroke her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear with tenderness that is probably inappropriate given the situation.

She smiles dreamily at the contact. "Thank you," she murmurs.

"For what?" I can't help but smile at her sleepy voice and bleary eyes.

"For being there," she says, sleepy but serious.

"Always," I repeat, "I am  _always_ gonna be there for you."

"Why?" she asks.

I don't understand the question. "Why what?"

"Why are you still here? You should hate me...for what I've done." Her voice becomes small and meek as she says it, like she's afraid of my response as if she's expecting me to walk away and never look back.

"You haven't done anything wrong. You were right, there was no way you could safely have a baby, given your...situation. You made the best decision anyone could possibly make in your shoes and no one has any damn right to judge you because they have no idea what you've been through." I say it with blazing intensity that frightens even me.

"You think so?" she asks, hopeful.

"You've just been playing the hand that was dealt to you. It's a shit hand, but you haven't let it stop you from being a beautiful, sweet, intelligent, amazing girl." I kiss her forehead. I mean every single word.

"Yeah?" she says, daring to smile faintly.

"Yeah. Now sleep, baby girl." I pull the covers up around her body as she closes her eyes again. I doubt she'll remember a word of this conversation come morning, but it seems to have put her at peace for the time being.

I curl up in my blanket nest, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep, the events of the day running through my mind as I try to make sense of everything that's happened, how there can possibly be any justice in the world while someone so good, so pure, suffers like that.


	7. Chapter 7

If I expected something to change after we get back from New York, it doesn't.

She doesn't stop seeing Ian.

She doesn't stop being my friend.

The only thing that changes, is Emily.

She's quieter, more reserved, and so obviously depressed I don't know how I'm the only one that seems to notice. I want to help her, somehow, but I don't know how...and I'm not so sure she wants to be helped anymore, anyway.

"Do you think the baby knows what happened?" she asks softly.

We're lying in the dew damp grass, side by side, in my backyard. Though she hasn't said as much, I know she's been plagued by nightmares since the procedure. She frequently shows up at school with heavy bags under her eyes like she doesn't sleep. When it gets especially bad, like tonight, she wakes me up to keep her company. I don't sleep very well at the best of times, so I don't particularly mind.

I turn my head to look at her. She isn't looking at me as she speaks, staring up at the night sky as if it contains the answers she desperately needs. She's gone back to wearing all black, so she seems to melt into the darkness all around us, but for the light of the moon lighting up her profile, making her pale skin glow against the black of night.

"Well..." I say slowly, unsure how exactly to answer. There are so many things I want to say, so many things she needs to hear, but they all seem to stall on my tongue.

She takes my reluctance as affirmation, which seems to be the answer she's expecting. She doesn't say anything for a long time, merely nods, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

I want to say something, anything to make it better for her, but I doubt there are any words adequate to ease the ache I know is inside her. So, I just let the silence linger, thick and weighty all around us like a funeral shroud.

She finally breaks her silence again, "Do you think the baby knows why? That I just couldn't be a mother?" Her voice sticks in her throat, catching on a lump of tears she's fighting with all her might to withhold. She doesn't want me to see her that way, to see her weak.

"I think the baby is in heaven, looking down on you, and it can hear everything you wish you could say." I reach over to clutch her hand, squeezing it the way I had in the doctor's office as silence descends between us again.

She looks down at our joined hands, but refuses to meet my eyes. She squeezes back, though, just as tightly as she did that day.

I can see the glint of her tears as they trail down her cheeks, but I don't ask why. I already know the answer.

She sniffles quietly and, in a wavering voice asks, "Should I...name the baby? I mean, I know I can't bury it or anything and it's not like anyone would ever know, but..."

I stem the flow of her words, replying, "I think it would help you heal. The baby was real – to you, to me, and it deserves to be known as more than 'it' or 'baby'." The words surprise me a little even as I say them, but I don't have to search to know that they're true – try as I might to disconnect myself, I was invested in that little life she'd unknowingly created. I would have done anything to help her, if she'd asked, including, I think, help her raise it.

She doesn't say anything for a long time and I can't help but wonder if she's somehow read my thoughts and been frightened. She picks a dandelion beside her head and blows the seeds up into the air and they rain down around us like snowflakes.

"You're allowed to grieve," I tell her, "You lost someone, someone you loved." I know she loved that baby, even if it never got to take a breath. She would have been a good mother, even as young as she is, as scared as she was. I may not know much, but I have no doubt about that.

She sucks in a shaky breath and wipes away tears with her wrist. "Aibhilin?" she suggests, so quietly I nearly miss it.

"That's beautiful," I reassure. "What does it mean?" I ask.

"It's Irish," she says as if she thinks I won't like it because of the connection to Ian. She may be right, but I could never hold his sins against her or her child. "It means longed-for child. So she knows I wanted her, even if I couldn't have her...?" She says it like a question, waiting for my reaction before getting attached.

"I'm sure she'd like that." Usually, when she talks about the baby, it's a girl and I think it's because, in her mind, men have always hurt her, so she needed it to be a girl.

"Aibhilin Prentiss," she says slowly, as if testing it out, seeing how the words feel falling from her lips.

I can still see the guilt, the doubt plaguing her. I roll over onto my side, sitting up halfway so I'm in her line of sight. She needs to see that I'm serious. "You did what you had to do because you couldn't have had a baby right now, but that doesn't mean you have to pretend the baby never existed. You  _are_ a mother; a mother who lost her baby. One day you're going to see that you couldn't possibly raise a baby all by yourself at fifteen, even though you're the strongest, smartest, most capable person I know."

Looking down at her red-rimmed eyes, her tear-stained cheeks, I still find beauty in her pale face. But I'm not supposed to think that way about her.

I lay back beside her, gently pulling her head to rest on my chest. "Hey," I say softly, serious again, "You know I love you, right?"

"I know." She says it quietly, like it pains her to say it, but she doesn't say it back. I've long ago resigned myself to the fact that she'll likely never feel quite the same way about me as I feel about her.

I could probably lean over and kiss her right now and she probably wouldn't push me away…but that isn't how I want things to be between us. She's vulnerable and in pain and I could never take advantage of that. But that doesn't mean it doesn't pain me to know that this is likely all I'll ever have with her.

Suddenly, she leans over and presses a tender kiss to my cheek. "Derek James Morgan, you're the best friend I've ever had. I wish there was some way I could thank you...you've done more for me than you could ever understand."

I want to tell her that I didn't do it for her thanks, that she never needed to repay me, but for now, I let the silence remain. I interlace our fingers again, letting our hands rest in the cool grass as we both lay back in the grass to watch the moon cross the sky, both of us praying for meaning we desperately need but won't find.


	8. Chapter 8

"Emily," I say urgently, shaking her. There's a heavy sick feeling in my heart. "Emily!"

She'd called me in the middle of study hall and I'd known deep in my gut that something was very wrong. I realize now that she was calling to say goodbye.

She blinks blearily at me, like she's surprised to see me, like she's forgotten she called me. "D-Derek?"

If the pills scattered across the dresser are any indication, she very well may have. I pull at her eyelids, finding her eyes bloodshot and dilated. "Emily, what did you take!?"

I'd known she was depressed, but I'm stunned that she would do this, that she would leave me like this. Things start to make sense, though – the sudden blunt chopping off of her hair, the unexpected gift of her treasured signed first edition copy of  _Mother Night_...

"I... I'm sick," she stammers, almost apropos of nothing, "I'm so sick." Her face is waxy and ashen and she lurches forward suddenly. I barely manage to get the trash can in front of her before she vomits violently.

My stomach turns at the sight and I fight the urge to be sick myself as I hold her hair out of the way.

"I'm so tired," she whispers once she's finished throwing up. She's starting to slur her words and fear chases the bile up my throat.

"Just hang in there," I urge, squeezing her shoulder with one shaking hand. "Just stay awake a little longer, okay? I'm going to get you to the hospital."

I'm not entirely sure  _how_ , given that I don't have a license and haven't driven a day in my life...

"No!" she shrieks, sitting up suddenly, pushing me away from her with surprising force. "You can't! I want to die," she insists. Evidently, she hadn't planned for this, on someone stopping her.

"You're not going to die, princess," I say, the matter not up for debate. "I'm going to take care of you." She looks like she wants to argue with me. I don't give her the chance. "You're going to the hospital. End of story."

"Derek..." she says, but trails off with a pitiful little whimper of pain.

"I'm right here, you're going to be alright. Stay with me, baby, come on. Stay with me."

She opens her eyes, but the words that follow turn my blood to ice. "Let me go," she begs.

"No, no," I panic as her eyes flutter closed again. I clasp her hand, squeezing it for dear life as if I can anchor her here through sheer stubbornness. "I'm not letting you go." I struggle to find words, any words, that will keep from giving in to the encroaching darkness.

She means the world to me and I'm on the brink of losing her. The thought terrifies me. A world without Emily Prentiss isn't a world I want to live in. I've thought about suicide many times in the past, to escape Buford, to be with my father again, but the thought of abandoning my mama like that stays my hand every time. Then Emily came along and there suddenly seemed to be so many more reasons to live...I don't know that I can go back to living in a world without her in it.

I squeeze her hand tighter, hard enough that I'm afraid I might crack her dainty bones beneath my fingers. Her palm is clammy and limp in my grip. Her breath is laboured and each one seems like she won't take another.

"No, Emily, come on," I urge, my turn to beg, "Stay with me. If you can hear me, please, just squeeze my hand." She does, but only slightly, but it sends my hope skyrocketing, knowing there's still a little fight left in her. "Yes, there. There you go, baby. Just keep squeezing."

* * *

She's in the hospital for two weeks while her liver recovers.

I don't know who her mother pays off, but she doesn't end up spending any time on the psych ward.

The official story they're telling people is that she had severe food poisoning. But I know what really happened that day. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget as long as I live.

"Why did you do it?" I ask her when I visit. "Why, Em?"

"I don't know..." she says weakly, ashamed. She won't meet my eyes, staring intensely down at the blanket, tangling her fingers around a loose thread and tugging weakly.

"That's not good enough!" I say with more force than I'd intended, slamming my hands down on the little table beside her bed, rattling the vase of flowers I'd brought her – they look small and pathetic next to the bouquets her mother's friends sent, but it's all I could afford.

My ferocity seems to startle her. She looks up at me with wide frightened eyes and I feel bad for my outburst.

"I'm sorry," I say calmly, holding up my hands placatingly. "I just...I need a reason, Em, I need to know. You tried to kill yourself..."

She flinches as if the words cut her and she shushes me almost angrily.

"I won't stand by and watch you do this, Emily. If you're going to self-destruct, I won't be a part of it. I understand the desire to escape, maybe better than anyone, but suicide is not the answer and I won't stand idly by if you intend to go through with it." My voice is all intensity, my eyes all hard glare as I speak – she needs to know how serious I am. I'll love her 'til the end of time, but I won't stand for this.

Her eyes shine with tears and I don't allow myself to look into them because I know I'll soften if I do. "I'm sorry," she rasps around a lump in her throat. "I'm sorry, Derek, I never meant to hurt you..."

"Then, why?" I insist.

"I don't deserve to live," she says meekly, "I killed my baby... Father Guimino said I'm going to Hell and so is Aibhilin. I deserve it, but she doesn't, she's innocent."

"Screw him," I say ferociously. "God expects too much of fifteen year old kids."

She looks like she wants nothing more than to believe me, but just  _can't_. She scoots over on the bed and asks softly, not for the first time, "Stay with me?"

I may be angry with her, with the choice she made, but she's scared and alone and she needs me. "Always."


	9. Chapter 9

"We should run away together," Emily says suddenly. It's the first time she's suggested it, but I suspect she's been thinking it for some time now. She's been out of the hospital all of a week and apparently, she's spent that time planning a different sort of escape.

Her head rests in my lap and I'm twisting and tangling my fingers in the strands of her hair. She's had red streaks put in since the last time I saw her. Her gaze doesn't lift from the cartoons she put on, like she's suggested we order a pizza rather than leave town.

I must've been silent for a long time because she sits up so that I'm forced to look at her. "Come on," she wheedles, "We could go somewhere no one will ever find us and we'll never have to be afraid again."

She's not going to let this go, I realize and I sigh. "We're not running away," I say flatly.

She raises a brow, clearly unhappy, and looks about to argue the point.

I interrupt, "We're just kids, Em – we can't support ourselves. Where would we live? How would we pay for stuff?"

"I've got a trust fund..." she argues, but it's weak, like she's no longer sure of herself.

"Besides, I could never leave Mama and my sisters. It would break their hearts. They need me."

Her face falls a little and I can tell what she's thinking before she thinks it.

"And  _I_ need  _you_ ," I tell her firmly. "So, don't even think about leaving without me."

Then she does something I don't expect and leans in to press her lips to mine. It's the first time I've ever kissed a girl. She tastes like smoke and cinnamon. I can feel her lip gloss rubbing off on my lips.

When she pulls away, she gives me a smile that quirks up one side of her lips but not the other, all self-deprecation and shyness.

I'm silent for a long time again, stunned and at a loss for words, and it's clearly making her uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry for kissing you," she says, looking defeated and small. I get the feeling she doesn't kiss many boys just because she wants to.

"Don't be," I whisper, stroking her cheek, bright red with embarrassment and shame. I kiss her back, feeling incredibly awkward as I do so, not knowing how to move my lips or what to do with my tongue. I hope I'm not a terrible kisser.

She doesn't seem to know how to react now that I've returned her advance, but she easily takes over control of the kiss, though she seems to be going easy on me. She moves to sit in my lap and laces her fingers with mine as she pauses for breath and nuzzles her nose against mine. I hadn't expected her to be so tender.

She presses soft kisses all over my face and it dawns on me that she's doing something neither of us has truly had before: she's offering me something that isn't about power or control or abuse, but something borne from a place of genuine affection. I'm hesitant to use the word love, but I think that's what I feel in her touches.

She pulls back to look at me properly. I can tell what she's thinking without her having to say it and I'm surprised to feel that I really do want this. I want to know what it's like; not to be used, but to express my feelings for someone with sex. Not as something that's forced upon me, but as something that I want to be a part of.

I know she's slept with guys before, but it's something she does because of a desperate need to feel wanted, to feel connected, to have friends. I know she's never had genuine feelings for any of them, with the possible exception of Ian Doyle (but he's the last thing I want to think about right now, even though I know I should stop, should ask). She's been taught that's all she's good for, that her body is the only thing she has to offer.

I want to tell her that it isn't true, that she has so much more to offer.

"We…we could go upstairs?" I offer. She smiles a little and nods, taking my hand and letting me lead her up to my bedroom.

I have to move a pile of laundry off my bed so that we can lie down and it makes her laugh a little.

She undresses until she's only in her underwear and motions for me to do the same. I try not to stare at her, at her breasts and the black lace that covers them. She giggles. "You're allowed to look, you know."

A little awkwardly, now that we're both so exposed, we sit down on the edge of the bed and she starts to kiss me again. She pushes me to lie down, her knees on either side of my hips. I don't mind her taking charge, seeing as she's the one that knows what she's doing. With her it doesn't feel like she's taking advantage of me.

She kisses down my neck and chest and though I know I should be turned on – I  _am_ turned on by her – my body doesn't seem to want to cooperate. "I…I can't…get it…up," I mumble, ashamed.

She turns my head so I'm forced to look her in the eye. "Can I?" she asks quietly. I nod, knowing that this will be the true test of whether I can really go through with this. She'll be the only other person to ever put her hands on my body.

She pushes my boxers down and I hold my breath as I wait for her hand to touch me. Her palms are warm and a little sweaty, her skin soft. Her movements are slow, at first, hesitant, giving me time to ask her to stop. But I don't. I refuse to let Carl take this away from me.

Her touch is nice and she quickly manages to get me erect. She smiles, then hops off the bed to rummage through her purse, producing a condom. I can't help but wonder how often she actually needs them. She hands it to me and removes her panties while I roll it on.

She carefully slides herself onto me and tries very hard to hide the pain from her face. She asks me if I'm okay and I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I want to ask her if she's okay too, but before I have the chance, she's moving.

It takes longer than I expected for me to come. She gets herself off once before I do, but doesn't have time for a second.

When it's done, she lies down beside me and there are tears in her eyes she's trying hard not to let me see. I'm crying too and get up and go to the bathroom to clean up so she won't see.

She's still crying when I come back and I hold her. She holds me tightly and I give up holding back and let myself cry too.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't know what I expect to happen the next day at school, but it isn't any of the things that actually do happen.

I want to talk to her about what happened between us. Last night meant  _everything_ to me and I need to know if it meant  _anything_ to her. I've never had  _this_ , this feeling, with anyone before and I can't go on in limbo like this. I need to know what it all means.

I want to ask about Ian, certain he'd flay me alive if he knew what I'd done with his girlfriend. I need to know whether she's even still his girlfriend, whether she has real feelings for him and, if she does, why she would kiss me if still loves him. I still don't understand it, her feelings for him, but I respect her decision, even if it kills me inside.

I want to make sure she doesn't regret what happened. Her suicide attempt is still so fresh in my mind that I worry the two are connected. I don't want to be a mistake, a bad decision...I want to be something she's certain about.

All these things are running through my mind, tripping over each other in a race to come out, as I wait by her locker that morning. In my pocket, I play with the little pinky ring she always wears – I found it on my floor this morning (stepped on it, actually), it must have fallen off yesterday without her noticing – the metal cold against my sweating palms.

When she approaches, she almost takes my breath away. She's always beautiful, but today, she's glowing. Mama would describe it as a 'Marilyn Monroe' moment, the way she'd always draw your focus in a photograph, even if she didn't know it was being taken. In the crowded hallway, she's the only one I see.

I can't remember the last time I've seen a smile this genuine on her face. And, perhaps selfishly, I can't help but hope I'm the reason.

"M-morning," I stutter dumbly, all my well-planned conversation starters vanished without a trace in the face of her breathtaking beauty, her stunning smile. I nearly trip over my own feet as I move out of the way of her locker. She's the only one who has ever made me feel like such an idiot and I don't entirely mind.

Ordinarily, she'd tease me, but today, she's too preoccupied. "Guess what?" she asks excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet a little. She claps her hands together and presses her fingers against her lips, almost like she's praying, in an attempt to hold back her enthusiasm. Before I get the chance to ask, she's already answered the question, "I found my father!"

I blink at her for a moment or two, unsure how to respond. I knew her father wasn't in the picture, something about a messy divorce that she wasn't too keen about elaborating on, but I had no idea she was looking for him. To my knowledge, she was still angry with him for abandoning her. "Have... Have you spoken to him?" I ask when my mind finally catches up.

"Not yet," she says. Her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink with excitement. "I don't want to do it over the phone. I need to see him, talk to him in person. He's in Nashville, I could be there in a day."

She's so excited and she clearly wants me to be happy too, but there's a nagging feeling somewhere in my gut that I can't ignore. "That's great," I say anyway, because I hate to disappoint her. "That's really great."

She frowns, able to see through my every facade. She quirks a brow, giving me such a 'mom' look. "You don't seem that excited..."

I sigh wearily. I don't want to argue with her. "It's just...you haven't seen him in a decade. A lot can change in ten years. I just don't want you to get your hopes up only to have them dashed when you get out there and find that he isn't everything you built him up to be in your head. He left you – what if he doesn't want to see you?"

"Anything's better than where I am now..." she says in the barest of whispers.

I can't argue with that when everyday I wish I had somewhere, anywhere, to go to escape.

We're both silent for a long time, not quite meeting each other's eyes, but understanding exactly what the other is thinking anyway.

"So," I say eventually, breaking the silence, "When are you leaving?" I want to argue and plead and beg her not to go, not to leave me...but this is something I know she needs to do.

"As soon as possible – tomorrow, if I can. If  _he_ finds out I'm leaving, he'll kill me, so I have to be careful. I'll pack a bag tonight, withdraw all my savings out of the bank, pretend I'm going to school and just...never come back."

My heart clenches. Tomorrow? "You'll say goodbye, right?" I ask, hating how weak and needy I sound as I say it, but needing to say it anyway.

"Of course," she says as if it's the most foolish question in the world.

I don't point out that the last time she tried to leave, she almost didn't say goodbye. Neither of us needs to relive the horror of that day.

I don't know how I'm going to survive without her, but I don't say that, don't say any of the things I want to say because it's just too hard, too painful. "Oh," I say, suddenly remembering the ring in my pocket. "You forgot this." I hold out the ring to her.

She takes it with delicate reverent fingers, a small smile playing about her lips. "My father gave this to me, when I was very young. It's a promise ring..." She gives a snort of ironic laughter. "Guess I broke that promise a long time ago." She extends her hand back towards me. "Keep it."

"I-I can't. It's special." I hold up my hands to refuse.

"Think of it as a way to remember me." She presses it firmly into my palm and closes my fingers around it.

The bell rings then and she presses a kiss to my cheek before bounding off to class. I'm rooted to the spot, clutching the ring hard enough that the edges all dig into my flesh. I didn't get to say anything I wanted to say, but it doesn't matter now.  _'I'm losing her'_ , I keep thinking,  _'I'm really losing her.'_

I'm frozen in place until the principal comes through the hall for the tardy sweep.


	11. Chapter 11

_Dear Derek;_

_There are so many things I should say to you, so many things I want to say, but just can't find the words... There are things you need to hear, deserve to hear from me, but I'm afraid I'm a coward and I can't bear to say them. For that, I'm sorry._

_I know you don't think it's wise, but I'm going to find my father. I can't stay here any longer, knowing there's safety waiting for me out there. We'll go somewhere where we can't be found and my father will protect me. When we're safe, I'll let you know. And if you ever decide you need to escape, there will always be a place for you._

_You've been the best friend I've ever had and everyday I'm grateful to have met you, even if it was perhaps under unfortunate circumstances. I'll never be able to repay you for the kindness you've shown me, even if I live a hundred lifetimes. You're a good guy – you make the people around you feel good. I hope you know that._

_I'm sure you're probably confused about our night together and I want you to know that it wasn't a mistake. You could never be a mistake. I don't regret what happened, but even if I could have stayed, I think one night was all it ever could have been. But for that one night, I felt more cared for, more genuinely loved than I've ever felt with anyone and I thank you for making me feel worthy of it._

_I'm sorry that I had to leave. I wish you could have come with me. I don't know what our life would have looked like – like you said, we're only kids – but we'd have each other. And I think that would have been enough. But you love your family so much and I respect that – it's one of the things I love about you._

_Yes...I said love. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but loving you could never be one of them. I think, in another life, under different circumstances we could have made things work between us. We could have had a life together, been happy. Been in love. It just wasn't meant to be this time around. Perhaps, there's another universe out there somewhere where things have worked better for us._

_I hope you find a way to heal from all the hurt that's been wrought upon you. I hope you can help others, the way you've helped me. I hope that you'll find happiness in life, find love – someone you can share every part of yourself with, without fear, someone who will love you in all the ways I never could._

_And, if one day our paths cross again – and I hope fate is kind enough that they do – I hope you know that your love, your support, is the reason I will still be alive._

_Please stay safe. Please be brave. Please never doubt how much you mean to me._

_Love,_

_Emily_


	12. Chapter 12

_One Month Later_

Skeletal remains of a teenage girl turned up yesterday.

The news article said the bones showed evidence of violent stabbing and the remains had been dissolved in acid. The police were still waiting on DNA to identify the body, but I know in my gut it's Emily.

She kept her promise and said goodbye to me, but that's the last time I heard from her. She didn't call, didn't text. She probably changed her number so she couldn't be found because my messages all bounced back. She deleted all her social media accounts, so I didn't hear from her on Facebook or Twitter either. I knew it was best that way, but that didn't make it feel any better. I kept clinging to hope, though, that one day she'd find a way to tell me that she was safe, that she'd found her father and they were living happily as a family again. That dream kept me going.

Now, I know the reason I haven't heard from her is because she's dead.

She warned me that he'd kill her. I should have tried harder to stop her. I should have gone with her, protected her. I should have done  _something_...

Reasonably, I know I'm only a teenager, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and what could I really have done against a full-grown man armed with a knife, set on seeing her dead? I'd probably be dead too, if I'm being honest. But at least I'd have tried...instead, I just let her walk out of my life and into his blade.

I can't undo that, can never make up for it, but I can make sure the bastard that murdered her, that robbed her of her innocence, that made her life a living hell, gets everything he deserves and more...

I find Ian Doyle in auto shop, fixing up a rusted out something or other car. He's smoking and wearing a patched leather jacket, looking like a 1950's greaser, but for his prematurely greying hair. I still don't get what Emily sees –  _saw –_  in him.

I clear my throat once, twice, trying to get his attention, but the noise of old engines and the blaring radio drowns out the sound. He turns around sharply, brandishing a wrench, when I eventually tap him on the shoulder. I duck and cover my neck, believing him fully capable of bashing my head in with a shop full of witnesses.

"Relax," he says in a thick Irish brogue, punctuated by a roll of his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you." He sets down the wrench as if to prove the point. He stares at me for a long moment, sizing me up, even though we both know I'm no threat to him. He flicks ash onto the pavement, then points at me with the cigarette. "Morgan, right? Emily's mentioned you."

I'm surprised by that, but don't say as much.

He stares at me expectantly, if a little annoyed at the interruption, waiting for me to say something, anything.

"Speaking of Emily," I say when I finally find my tongue, hoping I don't sound as nervous as I feel. "You haven't heard from her lately, have you?" I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide their trembling. Her ring is still there, I'd forgotten about it until that moment. I make a mental note to get a chain so that I can have a part of her near my heart, always.

He purses his lips, thinking. "Not in about a month. Last we spoke, she was acting kind of strange, flighty. Why?" He narrows his eyes, as if suspicious of my motives.

I don't know what he's thinking, but rush to head off his train of thought anyway, certain it's going nowhere good. "Do you love her?"

"Aye." The answer is immediate and vehement. I'm surprised a second time. Ian Doyle isn't the falling in love type.

"You'd do anything for her? To protect her?" I'm gambling now, acting on a hunch and praying I'm right.

His brow furrows. "Aye..." It's slower, drawn out, wary even.

"I think something's happened to her, something bad. You know the remains they found yesterday? Well, I think they're hers." I have no proof, other than my suspicions, so I'm desperately hoping he'll believe me without much questioning.

"You think I killed her?" he growls and I've never believed him more capable of murder than in that moment.

"No! No, no, no!" My voice is high and warbling. I hold up my hands placatingly and flinch away from his advance. "But I know who did..." I add quietly.

He considers that, me, for a moment, then nods for me to continue.

I pull a letter out of my back pocket and hand it to him, knowing he'll believe Emily's word before mine. "Read this." She'd written a second letter, instructing me to give it to the police if something were to happen to her, but there's only so much they can do within the constrains of the law and jail is too good for the bastard who robbed the world of Emily's light.

I watch his face as he scans the letter, the lines in his prematurely aged face becoming more pronounced the further he gets. His eyes are cold and hard when he looks up and meets my eyes. "This is true?"

"All of it."

"He can't get away with this..." he grinds out and it's positively bone chilling.

"Agreed. She wanted me to give this letter to the police, but I figured that, maybe, since, you know, the rumours, that maybe you knew someone who..." I trail off, shrugging vaguely. I'm trying not to offend him while still getting my point across.

"I won't rest while he still draws breath," he says ominously, clenching a fist around the butt of his cigarette and he must be burning himself, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

I don't have the chance to reconsider whether this is a good idea, whether this is what she would have wanted, because in the next instant, he's speeding off on his motorcycle without so much as a glance back.


	13. Chapter 13

_Present Day_

My mind is shouting the name  _Morgana_ on repeat, louder and louder, until it's almost all I can think about, until it takes up all the space in my head and forces out all other conscious thought.  _Morgana, Morgana, Morgana_.

Emily is staring at me, almost concerned, eyes so soft and exactly the way I remember them when she used to look at me. She must have asked if I'm alright because her lips move, but I don't hear any sound. I'm not sure of the answer anyway, so I say nothing.

There are so many questions I want to ask, so many things I want to say. Things like  _'But you're supposed to be dead!'_ Things like  _'Let me protect you.'_  Things like  _'I love you...'_ Exactly none of them are safe to say while we're being watched.

I'm not sure she'd want to hear them anyway. I've spent the last fifteen years thinking of her daily, but for all I know, I'm nothing but a ghost to her.

I swallow all the dangerous words sitting on my tongue before they can escape and do any damage. It feels like swallowing thorns, scraping at my throat all the way down until it feels rough and raw, until it feels like blood should come bubbling out my mouth.

"You could lose all of them if you don't help us out here – talk to us and we'll protect you and your children," I say, when the burning has finally died down and the silence has stretched on so long it might as well have been an eternity. I'm not sure what I'm implying they need protection from...maybe Ian, though I doubt after fifteen years together he's any threat to them, even if he's a _very_  dangerous man.

I can see the ' _Fuck you_ ' blazing in her eyes, a mama bear whose cubs have been threatened and I'm standing directly between them. "If you want to protect us, you'll leave us alone." It's calm and collected and oh so very cold – it's almost a threat. I've never known her eyes to be so icy, not towards me, at least.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Em-Lauren." I wince at the slip. I'm sure she's innocent, but I say it anyway because there's a script I'm expected to follow. "You're a material witness at best, at worst a co-conspirator."

That seems to get a rise out of her. I can see in the set of her jaw, in the tightening fists, that she's fighting the urge to chew her nails. She taps her foot nervously instead. "Excuse me? Since when am I a suspect?" Her voice is imperious, with a hint of disbelief.

She isn't really – we have no useable evidence against her – but we're hoping to knock her off balance long enough to get her to admit something of use against Doyle since she doesn't seem about to incriminate him on her own.

Unfortunately, she's rock solid. She always has been. "Charge me or let me go," she says on a sigh and I can suddenly see every one of the fifteen years in her face. Her eyes are begging me for compassion, to remember what we used to be...

As if I could ever forget.

Not a day goes by where I don't think of her. Of what we were, what we could have been, if fate had been kinder. I still wear her ring on a chain around my neck, as a reminder; I want to touch it now, but don't want to give away too much of myself.

My head is muzzy and my mouth feels like it's full of cotton and how can she possibly still have this effect on me after fifteen years? I open my mouth, hoping the words will come to me, but they don't and I just gape stupidly for a few moments.

I'm startled by a sharp knock on the two-way glass and I excuse myself, glad for an excuse to put a little space between myself and the woman whom a part of me still cares deeply for.

Hotch's expression is something akin to  _'the fuck, dude?'_  or, it would've been, if he weren't Hotch. I just shake my head because what else is there to do? He either doesn't know what to say or he's saving the dressing down for later because he says nothing. His silence does nothing to make me feel any better.

Garcia is looking at me like she's got a lot she wants to say on the matter, but it isn't her place. I'm grateful she doesn't say it because I know she sees right through me like I'm as insubstantial as smoke and I really don't think I can handle her well-meaning words, her all-knowing gaze right now.

"I think we should let her see her kids," I say suddenly when no one else says anything, surprising even myself.

Hotch's brows leaps up his forehead. "She hasn't asked to see them," he points out. What he really means is that it isn't according to procedure.

I scramble for a logical reason, not having planned on saying that. "Right now, she's our best shot at putting Doyle away and she's not exactly being cooperative," I counter, gesturing towards the interrogation room where she's the picture of calmness. "Maybe if she's reminded of what's at stake, she'll be more inclined to help us."

Eventually, he nods, but he doesn't appear to be happy about it, not that I'd expected him to be. This isn't about him, though...

It's about Emily.

And, my mind whispers traitorously,  _Morgana._


	14. Chapter 14

"They won't really take those kids away, will they?" Garcia asks me softly. She isn't looking at me, staring through the glass at Emily and her children. Even after all the years she's been doing this job, she still can't stomach a family being ripped apart.

"No," I tell her firmly because I won't let them. With the very last fibre of my being, I won't let them. Those kids don't deserve to be punished for the sins of their father.

She chances a look at me, daring to hope I can do what I say; she always looks at me like I hung the moon, like I'm her hero. I hope one day to be worthy of it. Today, I am not.

I join her in staring through the glass without further comment and try not to wonder  _'what if...'_ as I watch Emily with her little family, even though it's all I can think about.  _What if? What if? What if?_

Declan is the spitting image of his father at his age, but for the premature ageing. He's trying to be strong, to be brave – for his sisters, for Emily. But every so often, his glacial blue eyes flick up from his homework to look at Emily, as if looking for reassurance that everything is okay. She meets his eyes every time and smiles, if a little tightly, runs a hand through his blonde curls, and occasionally presses a kiss to his forehead and he's trying to pretend he doesn't like it.

It doesn't escape my notice that he had to have been conceived shortly after Emily ran away. I try not to wonder whether she had wanted it, wanted a baby, when so recently before she had  _not_. Either way, she obviously loves him a great deal. I always knew she'd be a wonderful mother.

Aisling must get her genes from Ian's family because she's every bit the stereotypical little Irish girl with flouncing red curls, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and big blue eyes. She's wedged herself into the same chair as Declan and is studiously colouring (and singing Disney songs at the top of her lungs no matter how many times Emily asks her to use her inside voice), apparently oblivious to the situation at hand. Her face and dress are stained red with juice the officer watching the kids had offered her.

Morgana takes after her mother and I'm selfishly grateful for it. The three year old is seated in her mother's lap, cuddled as close to Emily's body as physically possible, either shy or frightened. She's clutching tightly to a stuffed rabbit wearing a tutu and she's got one of its paws and her thumb both in her mouth; she's a little old to be sucking her thumb, but Emily seems to allow it, given the stressful situation. Every so often, the toddler glances at the two way mirror, cocks her head, and narrows her eyes, as if she's looking clear through at me and into my very soul and I'm oddly unsettled by the look in her brown doe eyes.

Emily looks exhausted, like now that her children are all safe and within reach, her powerful, almost imperious, facade is crumbling away to the desperation underneath. She's terrified – I can see it in her eyes, but only because I know her as well as I do...she's doing an excellent job of hiding it, for her childrens' sake.

"Where's Papa?" Aisling asks innocently, almost curiously, glancing up from her colouring.

"Papa's talking to the police right now," Emily tells her, practiced calm in her voice.

"Is he helping them?" Declan asks, leaving the alternative unspoken. He's old enough to be suspicious, to know what's going on, even if no one's told him. He's picking at his nails, a nervous habit he must have picked up from Emily.

"Yes," Emily lies, "He's helping them catch a very bad man." Then, she adds, "Don't pick your nails."

Declan looks at her like he sees right through the lie, but knows that it's more for the younger children than it is for him. He says nothing.

"I wanna go home," Aisling whines, breaking the weighty silence.

"We'll go home soon," Emily assures her. "Finish colouring your picture, so you can give it to him when you see him, okay?"

"Oh. Okay." She seems appeased by that. "More juice!" she demands.

"That's not how we ask for things," Emily sighs like it's a hard fought battle, like she's embarrassed by her child's lack of manners. "You know better."

"More juice!" she says again, stabbing emphatically at the air with her crayon."

"Keep your voice down, please, your sister is sleeping," Emily scolds quietly, as the youngest Doyle has nodded off in her lap.

Aisling sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes in a very Emily-esque gesture, and returns to her colouring.

Declan reaches over to cover his sister's ears. "You're not telling the truth," he says, not accusatory, but pointed nonetheless. "About Papa..."

Emily looks lost for a response; she sighs heavily, shrugs, like  _'what do you want me to say?'_

"He's not a good man," Declan adds and it isn't a question.

Her face is oh so tired, oh so sad. "Your father made some bad choices, but he's always done it out of love for us. He loves you so much, mo stórin."

"They're going to take him away, aren't they?"

"I hope not," she whispers, but it's with a hint of acquiescence.

"Are they going to take you away too?" His voice trembles and he sounds so much younger than fifteen.

"Of course not," she vows. She wraps him up in a tight embrace.

"What happens to them, if she's arrested?" Garcia asks.

I want to tell her they have a living grandmother, but I have no idea if Elizabeth would even want them, if she cares that Emily's still alive. They have half a dozen citizenships each, but they were all born on American soil, no doubt Emily's doing, just in case something like this were to happen. "Foster care," I answer instead. "They'll probably be separated."

She says nothing, but I know what she's thinking anyway. She had her aunt and uncle, but not all kids are that lucky.

"But I won't let that happen," I promise. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her close against my side. "I won't let that happen."


	15. Chapter 15

"Something doesn't sit right with me about Lauren Reynolds," Rossi says to no one in particular. He's staring intensely at the board, as if he can find the missing link if he just looks hard enough.

"What do you mean?" Hotch asks, reserving judgement, but encouraging him to elaborate.

"She's too calm, her answers too perfect," he replies, then shrugs. "It's like she knew this was coming."

"Well, she is married to an arms dealer," JJ points out, "I'd think that would make me a little paranoid too. She probably knew it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him."

"No, it's more than that," Rossi says, shaking his head, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. He doesn't appear to have any idea what 'more' is, though.

"Let's get Garcia in here," Hotch commands.

Garcia comes bustling into the room with a laptop clutched tenderly to her chest. "Okay, so, here's the deal..." she prefaces what she's about to say as she sets up the laptop. "And when I say 'the deal', I mean it's a  _big fat deal_. And here is the deal...Lauren Reynolds does not exist." She flourishes her hands a little for effect.

I feel my blood turn to ice at those words, knowing her secret is about to be spilled and I'm going to be caught up in her web of lies and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I feel like I've failed her somehow.

"What do you mean she 'doesn't exist'?" Hotch asks, frown deepening.

"No, no, like she  _exists_ , as in she's sitting right there, but the  _identity_ is totally fake. The first  _real_  record I have of Lauren Reynolds is on Declan Doyle's birth certificate, fifteen years ago. Someone's gone to great lengths to make the identity appear legit – a fake birth certificate and everything – and it would not have come cheap. I tried to follow the money, but it all appears to have been cash payments, so dead end."

"So, we have nothing?"

I almost dare to hope, but I know Garcia is too good for that.

"Oh, sir, you doubt me prematurely. It took some work, but I used rendering software to de-age a photo of Lauren Reynolds and ran it through a bunch of databases. There's some margin of error, but the best match is to a missing persons report about a teenager who disappeared fifteen years ago." She pulls up a picture of fifteen year old Emily on screen, next to a picture of Lauren Reynolds today and there's no doubting it's the same person. "Emily Prentiss left for school one day and never showed up. The police suspected remains that turned up a month later were hers, but they could never prove it because DNA was too degraded by the acid used to dispose of the body. The case is technically still open today, but no one appears to be working too hard on solving it."

"Prentiss..." Rossi repeats. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"Her mother is a well-respected foreign ambassador who has made it her life-long mission to pressure politicians to pass legislature concerning missing children," Hotch says. "I worked security detail for her, years ago, when I was first starting out with the Bureau."

"Huh..." Garcia interrupts suddenly, then makes a little squeak of surprise as if only remembering we're all in the room with her. Her eyes flick up to meet mine and they're filled with confusion and, I think, a hint of fear.

"What is it, Garcia?" Reid asks her, moving to hover over her shoulder.

I already know what she's about to say. I shut my eyes tightly for a moment before my world comes crashing down around me. There's nothing I can do to stop it now.

She's still looking at me, mouth hanging open a little. "You... He..." she stammers. She's afraid of giving away my secret, even though she's looking at me like I've betrayed her trust somehow.

"My name is in that file," I save her from having to reveal the demons of my past. I attempt a smile at her to show that there's no hurt feelings – it would have come out sooner or later.

Everyone turns to look at me in varying stages of surprise and confusion.

"I knew Emily when we were teenagers – we went to high school together, we were friends. The police interviewed me after she disappeared," I explain.

Hotch is practically scowling now. "Why didn't you tell us that you recognized her?"

"I didn't think it mattered," I say, half-truthful, because this isn't about her, it's about Doyle...she just had the misfortune of getting tangled up with him. I can't help but feel that's partly my fault.

"We'll discuss this later," he says flatly, tone saying nothing, furrowed brows saying everything. I'll be lucky to escape with just a warning, if not a suspension.

"Uh-oh..." Garcia interrupts again, computer chiming intrusively. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, eyes widening as she types.

"What is it, Garcia?" Hotch asks, sounding almost weary.

"So, the system just finished running Doyle's DNA and it's linked him to a – umm – a particularly...gruesome unsolved murder from fifteen years ago." She scrunches up her face in disgust.

Seeing her squeamishness, Reid takes over reading from her screen. "A man was beaten to death with a tire iron and his genitals were removed perimortem with a dull pocket knife, clearly done by someone inexperienced with killing, but full of rage. Doyle must've cut himself while performing the mutilation."

"That sounds awfully personal..." Rossi suggests, "And Doyle doesn't do personal. His kills are purely business. He uses guns because they're quick and impersonal. So, what happened fifteen years ago that made him angry enough to kill for the first time?"

"Well...there was a second DNA sample left at the scene," Garcia pipes up trepidatiously. She glances at me again and I think it's in apology. "A  _female_ sample..." she says softly, eyes never leaving mine.

My heart drops.


	16. Chapter 16

"We need to go," I tell Emily firmly, shutting off the video cameras in the interrogation room.

She looks at me, taken aback, like there isn't a single part of that sentence she understands. It's late – the children are all sleeping on cots, but she's wide awake, sitting vigil over their beds. "Go where?" she eventually finds her tongue, speaking softly so as not to wake them. "Why?"

I shake my head. I can't give her any details, not yet, not when someone could be listening. "You're just going to have to trust me," I tell her.

"What's going on, Derek?" she asks, using my name for the first time in fifteen years. It makes my heart clench, the same way as when we were teenagers, the way it falls from her lips.

Fifteen years ago, she might have trusted me explicitly, but a lot of things have changed in that time. She seems reluctant to take that leap again and I realize I'm going to have to give her a bit of lead if I expect her to follow.

"They've matched Doyle's DNA to a cold case from fifteen years ago." I pause, waiting for that to sink in, waiting for a reaction. "They're getting a warrant for your DNA to test against the female sample left at the scene. It's going to be a match, isn't it?"

Unconsciously, she starts picking at her nails under the table. That's all the answer I need.

"Doyle killed _him_ , didn't he? But you helped..."

Her eyes are wide and she shakes her head slowly, but she remains mute, struggling to form words.

"When you killed him, did you know you left your DNA at the scene?"

She shakes her head again. "You know what he did to me," she whispers, looking every bit the frightened teenager she used to be. "I didn't kill him, though."

"But you were there?"

She doesn't say anything for a long time and even after all this time, I can still read her like a book.

"You're protecting Doyle aren't you?"

She doesn't respond right away, looking guilty, looking ashamed. Looking anywhere but at me.

Something inside me snaps. "They're going to arrest you, Emily! They're going to lock you away! Don't you get that?" I burst out.

She glares at me, reminding me not to wake the children – Morgana is stirring in her sleep – and I briefly feel bad, but the feeling doesn't last for very long.

"Doyle isn't going to protect you – he's facing life in prison, he could easily sell you out for a lesser sentence."

"Stop it!" she shouts. "You don't know him! He would never do that – he's protected me for the last fifteen years, he protected me when no one else would."

That cuts me worse than any knife could and she must see that in my face because she falters.

"I didn't mean that..." she says, voice and eyes soft again. "I just meant..." She sighs a little, shrugs helplessly. "I'm sorry, Derek. I know you tried to protect me. You always tried."

We're both silent for a long moment as she reaches across the table to rest her hand on top of mine and squeezes softly. Her touch takes me right back to that first day I met her, sitting on the hood of her car and baring my soul to her.

"I'm trying now," I tell her on a strangled breath. I clear my throat and try again with a firmer voice. "We need to leave."

"Where are we going?" she asks again, still reluctant to trust me with her whole heart the way she used to.

I shake my head and point towards the two-way mirror; everyone should be at home, asleep, but I'm not going to risk it. "If we're going, we need to go  _now_."

"I can't..." She chokes on a trembling breath. "I can't leave without Ian," she insists.

"Ian could face the death penalty – it's too risky." I want to shake her, to make her see reason. Ian Doyle is a bad man, has always been a bad man, and it's finally caught up with him. She and her children are going to get caught up in his wake and left to drown.

"I  _need_ him," she pleads, eyes starting to shine with tears. I see the frightened teenager in her eyes and know she's drowning already. "I...I'm pregnant."

Her confession knocks the air from my lungs. "What?" I ask, struggling breathe, feeling like I've just been punched in the chest.

"I can't do it without him. Please...you have to help him. For me."

I feel the burning anger rising inside me again, the urge to shake her getting stronger. This is not the same Emily Prentiss I fell in love with fifteen years ago. "That's bullshit, Emily," I hiss and she flinches like I've just slapped her, but I can't falter, can't soften. "You don't need him – you don't need  _anybody_. Emily Prentiss is the strongest damn woman I've ever met and  _this_  snivelling helpless damsel-in-distress is not her. Emily Prentiss wouldn't be caught dead crying over some guy, not when innocent lives at stake. She would hold her head high and do what's best for the people that need her and right now, that's these children," I say firmly, gesturing at the three sleeping forms.

"But...I love him," she whispers, almost ashamed, once again refusing to meet my eyes.

"Emily, we have to leave. It's the only way to protect you and your children. I can't protect Ian too." I don't add that I won't lose any sleep over it – he may have protected Emily, he may have loved her even, but that doesn't change the kind of man he was: the kind of man that could never deserve Emily Prentiss.

"I don't know how to do this without him," she whispers, eyes flicking down to her belly. "I don't know how to do this alone."

"You won't be alone," I assure her, resting my hands on her shoulders, gripping tightly, so that she's forced to look at me.

"You can't come with us," she insists, looking at me like I've lost my mind.

"Of course, I'm coming!" I insist right back.

"Do you realize what that means? This is permanent – no going back. You're aiding and abetting a murder suspect – we'll both be fugitives, we'll be on the run, forever. No contacting your family, no coming home. Ever. Just you and me and four children..."

I don't tell her that having her doesn't sound like a bad life. "Do you remember the letter you wrote me?" I ask, unfolding the piece of paper in my back pocket. I've read and reread the words so many times I could repeat it from memory alone.

"You kept that?" she asks, incredulous, like she can't believe she was that important to anyone.

I slide the paper emphatically towards her. "You said that maybe there was another universe where we could have been together," I paraphrase the letter, "But what about  _this_ universe? What if it's giving us a second chance?"

She opens and closes her mouth mutely a few times and I can tell she's desperately searching for an excuse, any excuse, to sway me.

"I've got passports for us, bank accounts, everything we'll need to start over. But we have to leave now," I say plainly. "But the decision is up to you."

She looks silently at her children for a long time, face wistful. "How do I tell them? That they'll never see their father again? That they can never be themselves again? How do I...have this baby on my own?"

"You'll have me. And as for the rest of that...well, we just take it one day at a time."

Her eyes are shining, hopeful, but wary as she takes my hand in hers.


	17. Chapter 17

_One Year Later_

I'm lightly bouncing baby Malachi against my hip, attempting to get him to take a bottle, but the baby is fighting against me with all his might, which is surprising for his size. He's small for his age – newly six months old this week – hence the bottle. We're trying to get him to put on weight, but he's dead set on resisting in favour of being breastfed.

Somewhere in the house, Morgana howls with rage and indignation over being forced to take a nap. Apparently, she skipped right over the terrible twos and the 'threenager' stage and saved all her naughtiness for me. I try not to take it personally – she misses her father and our new life isn't easy for anyone, let alone a preschooler, to adjust to.

The older two children are at school and we considered sending Morgana to preschool this year, but she doesn't always remember her new name (Maren, so it's not too big a change for the little girl), so we agreed it's too risky at the moment.

I think Emily keeps expecting me to be overwhelmed by the complicated new lives we lead and change my mind. I think she's counting down in her mind until I turn and run, no matter how many times I tell her that isn't going to happen. I try not to take it personally – in her whole life, Ian is the only person who has stuck with her, who's stayed true to his word, who never abandoned her. I'm determined to prove that she can trust me, no matter how long it takes.

"Why did you do it?" Emily's voice comes from the doorway to the nursery. Hearing his mother's voice, Malachi is instantly excited, squirming about, reaching his tiny arms out for her. I give up on the bottle, knowing he's not about to take it now.

I turn my head to look at her. She's leaning against the door frame, smiling softly as she watches the two of us. "Do what?" I ask, returning the smile.

She raises a brow, looking at me like I should know what she's talking about. I do, of course, because I've been waiting for her to ask. I knew it was only a matter of time before her curiosity got the better of her and she'd have to know.

"You know why."

She shakes her head, crosses the room to take the wriggling baby from my arms. She sits in the rocking chair and pulls down her shirt to feed him. She smiles tenderly down at him, stroking the peach fuzz on the top of his head. "I know why you  _said_ you did it, but that's not the real reason." It isn't a question.

It isn't yet clear which parent Malachi will take after, though I know Emily's hoping he'll look like Ian. I think she wanted to name him after his father, but refrained, out of deference to my sacrifice. She gave him a good Irish name, though, one he would have been proud of. Malachi Oisin Cassidy, since we had to leave the Doyle name behind.

Finally, she looks back up at me and she's smiling, but her eyes are searching out something in mine. "Why did you abandon everything for us?" she asks in a whisper, like she's afraid of the answer.

"You needed me," I say with a shrug. It's a half-truth and we both know it.

She cocks her head to the side, silently urging me to tell the truth. She knows I've never been able to deny her anything, all she has to do is ask.

"I promised to protect you. You thought he was the only one who would, but I always tried... Emily, I always tried."

"But you could've just given us the passports and let us go – you didn't have to come with us. Why would you do that?" she insists.

"Because I love you! I've always loved you, ever since we were kids, okay?" It's a little too loud, a little too emphatic. Malachi gives me an indignant look for interrupting his feeding.

"But you gave up your family, your job, your entire life for this...uncertainty. To raise four children that aren't yours. Because you loved someone that might never love you back?" She seems incredulous, skeptical even.

"I don't think you understand... You're  _everything_  to me. I've never felt this way about anyone else. Even when we were kids, I knew I'd love you to the day I died."

Her eyes slowly fill with tears. She shakes her head a little and I don't know whether it's from disbelief or whether she's wishing it weren't true.

"I love you, Emily, and I'd raise a hundred of his children to be with you. And I will love them like my own, no matter who fathered them." I know I'll never replace their father – in their mind or hers – but every day I do my best to prove myself worthy in the hopes that one day they'll allow me room in their hearts.

Her smile is small and watery. She blinks up at me, fighting back the tears in her eyes.

Everything in me wants to lean down and kiss her, but I don't. "I'd give up everything for you – again and again and again. Do you hear me?"

She nods insistently, sniffles. She doesn't say she loves me back, hasn't been able to say it yet. It will take time, I understand that and I'm not going to push her to say it before she's ready, even if that day never comes. Even if all she and I can ever be is two friends with a past.

I kiss the top of Malachi's head, breathing in the sweet new baby smell. I lift his sleepy form out of her arms and set him in his crib. We haven't talked about whether we'll raise him as my son, even though I already love him as my own.

"We're a family," I tell her softly as I close the door to the nursery. "And as long as you want me to be here, I will be."

"I don't think I'll ever understand how you did it," she says, still shaking her head. "How you could give up everything for us."

I just smile and fold her into my embrace.


End file.
